House of Cards
by 33whiteroses
Summary: And it all collapses. Brooke Davis plots her downfall.


_your skin...__  
__pretty girl, i'm drowning in you_

Apologizing to Nathan. Well, it has to be done.

You find him in the gym, not so much shooting baskets as shoving the ball through the hoop. The ball sears against the net and crashes into the gym floor before he snatches it up again. He spots you at the doorway.

"Fuck you."

"Nathan --"

"Don't even, Brooke. Do not take another damn step or I swear to God --"

You ignore him and keep walking, because Nathan may be livid, but he doesn't hit girls. He watches you approach for a minute, and then strides across the floor to the bleachers. You've never actually seen anyone angrily drink a bottle of Gatorade until now.

"Look, Nathan, we need to talk."

"Let me guess. You never meant for anyone to find out? You're really sorry?"

You laugh and sit down, crossing your legs. "Don't be stupid. If no one found out, what would be the point in doing it? And of course I'm not sorry. Apologies don't mean shit once you've already done something. If you're so damn sorry, you shouldn't do it in the first place."

He sits down next to you and stares straight ahead, chewing his lip.

"I had to do this, Nathan. I had no choice."

He turns to you, and your heart breaks, just a little bit, because all of a sudden it's fourth grade and Dan has ruined another one of his birthday parties and he's trying so hard to keep it all together but his pain is seeping through his eyes. You move to rub his back in a maternal sort of way (appropriate, really) but he shrugs you off.

"You know what? I felt sorry for you. But not anymore. You're just as much of a bitch as everyone says. I thought you were better than this."

"Oh, sweetie." You stand up, and momentarily cup his chin in your hand. Surprisingly, he doesn't move, just locks his eyes with yours. "When it all comes down to it, no one's better. Just opportunistic."

You leave him there, sweat dripping down his face. Your heels clack across the gym, and the coppery taste at the back of your throat burns like an inferno.

_orange blossoms__  
__baby i think i'm lost in you___

Sixteen years have taught you a few things. Getting what you want is all about knowing the tools, the tricks, the moves of the game.

"Daddy?"

He was sitting in the home office that was as pristine as a museum from lack of use. But when he was home, those rare days, he hardly ever left his sanctuary.

"What honey? I'm pretty busy."

You walked in, hair combed, face freshly scrubbed, lace edged camisole paired with the shorts with bunnies. "I want a new car."

He frowned, then, tapping a few keys, moving a few files. "Why? Something wrong with the one you have?"

"I don't like it anymore. I want a different one."

"Sweetie, I don't have time to go shopping for a new car with you. I have to leave for Bangkok for two weeks tomorrow, remember? And Mom isn't back from Finland for another three weeks."

"But I could take Peyton with me! She'll help me pick. Daddy, please? Please?"

He sighed. "Fine, honey. Just have whatever dealership you go to call my secretary and I'll arrange to transfer the money."

"Thank you Daddy! I love you." You stood on your tiptoes to lean over the desk and kiss his cheek.

"Honey?" His voice stopped you at the door. "Nothing over fifty. I mean it."

You smiled at him, pinky held aloft. "Promise."

_i don't care if it's cheesy, it's a classic.__  
__no, no, it's ours.__  
__listen -- because you're mine i walk the line___

You are in your room, paying your penance the only way you know how. You can't count beads on a rosary but you hope that breaking yourself in bits and pieces will partially absolve you in hell. There's a hesitant knock on the bedroom door.

"Brooke?" A cascade of blonde curls peeks through. "Can I come in?" You don't respond, and she seems to take that as an affirmative.

"I wanted to stop by and -- I thought you stopped that." She's staring at you hunched over the mirror splayed flat on your bed, credit card in one hand and rolled up fifty in the other.

"A little Adderol never killed anyone, P Sawyer." She watches uncomfortably as you clean the remnants off of the cool glass, and then dump everything on to your desk. "You had something to say?"

"Um, yeah." She shifts from foot to foot, widens her eyes, fiddles with her leather jacket. "Look, I heard about --"

"Aw, Lucas told you? That's sweet, really, that you two can share everything."

"Brooke, I'm worried about you." The quaver in her voice is slight and hoarse and possibly genuine. "I -- I know things haven't been great between us lately, but Brooke, please, don't do this. Please. However mad at me you are."

"This is about you? Huh. I guess the whole world really does revolve around Peyton."

"_Please_, Brooke." She takes a step closer, takes your hand in her own. "You are so much better than this, ok? You don't need to do this. You're a good person, you have a good heart. I know you do. Don't be mad at me anymore. We can be friends again, ok? We can talk about whatever made you decide to do this and-and I can help you, Brooke." And now her voice really does break. "I never meant to hurt you, ok? Please."

"P. Sawyer," you whisper, and brush a stray curl off her face. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Is that all you want? My forgiveness? Consider it done. Drop in the bucket, water under the bridge. Hoes reunited."

She gives you a shaky smile, eyes glistening with tears. "So you'll stop then? Now that we're friends, you won't keep this up?" She scans your face hopefully.

You lean over and plant a delicate kiss on her forehead. "It's not about you, babe. It's not about you." And you leave her, all soft-lit tragedy, framed by your lamplight and those fucking curls. The night is young, and the open road is aching for your Mustang.

_you taste like southern sin, perfection__  
__oh, please, don't ever stop___

You **know** how to get what you want.

"I don't care. I'm not buying a car from anyone else, that's what my Dad told me."

The man had glared at your for a moment, and then the salesman facade snapped back up. "Well, aren't you a smart young lady. Going right to the top to find yourself a deal. You just sit tight, I'll see if he has time for you."

He will, you didn't say. Tree Hill's Good Old Boy's Network is alive and well.

And a few minutes later, he had emerged, striding powerfully across the shiny white of the tile. "Brooke Davis. It's been awhile. How are your parents?"

"They're great. They say hello."

"Good." He smiled, and you saw the Devil in the whites of his eyes, flickering just out of reach. "So you want to buy a car?"

"Daddy said that the only person in town he'd trust to sell me a car is you." You stepped forward, being sure to clutch your purse and glance up. "So can you help me out?"

_i think we could stay in this trance forever__  
__just us, always___

He's hot when he's angry, you've kind of forgotten this. He's here, pinning you up against your car, raging blue eyes and taut muscles.

"You are a slut."

You laugh and you can tell it infuriates him even more.

"Oh, with sweet words like that, of course I'll stop! Anything for a boy who says such pretty things to me."

"This is sick, Brooke. This is fucking sick. Look at how cheap you are -- showing up at a hotel, ready to make your money?"

"Jealous because he loves me more than he'll ever love you?"

He looks disgusted, grips your arms even tighter. "He doesn't love you, and you're an idiot if you think he does."

"But he doesn't hate me, which is more than you can say."

He freezes, and then abruptly shoves off of her, stepping back. "Is this what it's all about? I hurt you, so you find the sharpest knife you can to make the deepest wound? Because it's fucking old, Brooke. I thought you were better than this."

"Well, you thought wrong." Now it's your turn to crowd his space. "Keep on saying it, Lucas. Keep on telling me like everyone else in the world, how I'm too good for the shit I've been given. Keep telling me to find my fucking halo. You knew damn well I wasn't a saint when you fucked me in an alley outside a bar. You want nice? Go give Tutorgirl a call. Don't you dare act surprised that I want my revenge."

He's breathing heavily even though you've been doing all the talking. "Want revenge? You've gotten your revenge."

"Not yet." You press a palm up to his chest. "You didn't hurt me Lucas, you went so far beyond that. You tried to pull me up. You said sweet things and promised me the world and etched your damn poetry on my skin. And then you betrayed all of that, and you think that one kiss on my part clears your slate? Not a fucking chance. I'm in for the long haul, so you'd better sit tight."

"Peyton says you guys made up."

She smirked. "Well, it's a lot harder to fuck her father considering he's on a damn boat."

"You'll forgive her, but you won't forgive me."

"Something like that."

He seethes, and you begin to smile again. "You want to know why, don't you?"

"Brooke." He doesn't say the word so much as he growls it.

"Right now, Lucas Scott, you want me. You want me because you can't have me, because I'm with someone else. The fact that it's your flesh and blood simply adds insult to injury."

"You're insane."

"Deny it, then. Tell me that right now you don't want to push me up against this car and not care about who's looking out the window and seeing us."

He doesn't answer.

"I'll take your silence as a yes."

"Brooke." Quieter, this time.

"So you just think about that, Lucas. You think about that while I go inside this hotel and do just that with someone else. I'll leave the curtain open for you, and you watch and you think. And then you go home to your blonde goddess and think again how I'm better than all of this."

You push him out of the way, and he doesn't try to stop you.

_the sun, it rises only to illuminate you__  
__let me show you, now. my turn.___

His skin smolders and his breath ignites fire on your skin. Blackness edges into your vision and you know, you know, that you have just glimpsed the sulfur and brimstone.

"You like the Mustang?" He traces lines as you writhe on the bed, lines of cracks of filaments and flashbulbs. "You let the wind blow in your hair?"

"You were right about it." You try to gain control, but he's been doing this too long. "When I'm in it, I'm the most beautiful girl in the world."

"Never forget it." He kisses you, hard, and your nails dig into his back. "I can make you whatever you want to be."

You let it all wash over you, let him roll over. You splay yourself across his chest and let him tighten his arm around your shoulders, calculating you as a sum of your parts.

"Is that a promise?" Your whisper drifts upward, floats through the blackness of the room.

"I don't make promises. I make threats." And you smile, because if down is the way you're headed than there are only so many glorious ways to get there. You push yourself up to kiss him again, and only then does the sound of a door slam and an engine revving and screeching tires drift through the open window.

Take me down, you say, and oh, how brilliant is the explosion.

_fin_


End file.
